


you're the calm in the storm

by Ephemeral_Joy



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anger, Anger Management, Angst, Banter, F/M, Family Issues, Group Therapy, Hurt/Comfort, Music, Strangers to Lovers, art therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29849571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephemeral_Joy/pseuds/Ephemeral_Joy
Summary: When Julie Molina was seven years old, she was diagnosed with Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Tantrums and fits of anger coloured her life, the death of her mother when she was fourteen not helping either.At eighteen, her dad handed her a last resort after a particularly bad altercation: The Butterfly Room. Group therapy for teenagers struggling with anger issues.There, she met Luke.Perhaps the green of his eyes allowed her to pick up a different brush.
Relationships: Julie Molina/Luke Patterson
Comments: 50
Kudos: 201





	you're the calm in the storm

**Author's Note:**

> this story is not meant to glorify, romanticise, or perpetuate harmful stereotypes about neurodivergence or mental illness. that being said, it is still fiction. if you do feel like certain parts are ignorant or hurtful, please tell me and i will fix it. i've done research, but i have my limitations too. 
> 
> if you've read some of my previous works, you know i love exploring anger and what it can mean for someone, so this is just another facet of that. happy reading <3

The LAPD had many stations around the city. The Northeast station in San Fernando was the one Julie was most familiar with. Granted, she’d rather not be super buddy-buddy with the rickety red chairs and the judgemental scent of cops, but at least they had a good vending machine. 

The front doors burst open as two cops jostled a boy her age inside, the latter deeply unimpressed and a smirk edging his lips as the cops gripped his shoulders. He looked like the typical roughhouser. Messy hair, muscle tee, more charm than was good for him. 

“C’mon, Nancy,” he laughed as he passed her. “It was just a joke.”

The women sniffed. “Kid, don’t start.”

The boy was pushed into one of the offices and that was that for Julie’s entertainment. Her arms crossed, sinking deeper into the horrible chair. When she tilted her chin, she’d watch the clock tick by slowly. It was nearing midnight. If only Carlos was sixteen; it would save her from a lot of embarrassment. Julie grinned. Her brother would probably be into it too: bailing her out, keeping it hush for their dad and tía, making deals with her. 

_“I won’t tell dad you stole from Zara, if you do my chores for a week.”_

Her dad rushed through the entrance door, face crashing into relief and disappointment (how he was able to do that, Julie didn’t know) at the sight of her. His fingers plucked at his hat, his nerves a stark contrast to her mute indifference. Sighing, he sat next to her; the chair creaked. 

For a minute, no one said anything. During those sixty seconds, remorse and shame tickled her skin, unsure whether that meant another angry flare would arise or if she’d just be sad. She didn’t know which she’d prefer. 

“It’s not looking good, mija,” he whispered.

His palm twisted upwards, Julie putting hers on top. The warm touch was comforting. Her shoulders slumped, sudden exhaustion falling upon her at dad’s care. Hell could descend onto earth because of _her_ wrongdoings and he’d still be by her side. More guilt kicked in, rushing through her brain in overdrive. 

Biting her cheek, she nodded her head. “I know.”

It was her third time stealing this month. The first was at Ulta, a tube of mascara. It was wrong, but she justified it that she simply needed a new one and that the multinational wouldn’t miss twelve dollars from her. The second was a bodega. Phone cases, sunglasses, necklaces. That stung more hours later. Today, she got into a heated argument with a shitty teacher and her thoughts had been racing all night and it felt like someone was breathing down her neck even though no one was. Zara’s dresses section only seemed like the most normal reaction. 

Mood stabilisers didn’t always help, unfortunately. Maybe Dr. Turner should change her dosis, or put her on something else. Anything to not hear her father so gutted. 

_Right after her mother died and he slid her a refill, she shot him a scowl. “Is this for horses?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“What?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Can this dosis put down a horse?”_

_“No, Julie,” Dr. Turner soothed in that stupid Psychiatrist Voice of his. “It’s made to help you, not to be against you.”_

_“Whatever.”_

Dad pushed himself from his seat. “I’ll fill in the paperwork. We’ll talk more tomorrow when you feel better.”

It wasn’t a proposition, it was a given. Her father could be a little bumbling or oblivious sometimes, but when he put his foot down, there was no budging. The idea to skip school was out of the picture too now. Shit. She really didn’t want to see Miss Porter’s smug face. It was the only teacher that didn’t care about her disorder and it drove her mad. While she didn’t want to be treated _differently_ (her peers already loved doing that), a bit of empathy would’ve been nice. Porter did the opposite; the woman lived to rile her up and get a reaction, like some sick, perverse fascination with the anger that boiled over and spouted from Julie’s furious lips. 

“Get a hobby!” She had yelled from the top of her lungs. Of that, she didn’t feel shameful. It was the fucking truth. 

The boy from before came out the office again with a sullen expression. He was out of the cuffs and the previous bravado had disappeared. Her gaze averted to the floor. He didn’t need to know she was staring. Three seats from her left creaked under someone’s weight.

His knee was bouncing for ten seconds and she already couldn’t take it. “Can you not?”, she bit, glaring at him. 

He stopped, his hands raised in surrender, and scoffed. “Damn, okay.” 

Her lips pursed and turned back to burning a hole in the ground. She was scared of what her dad would say. Would he pull her out of school and make her finish online? Her only friend and the reason she kept sane was Flynn. If she didn’t have her, she’d become isolated. Or worse: Flynn would drop her. The girl had plenty of friends in dance club and those fashion seminars she took at FIDM. She had a life, unbridled by temper tantrums. Though she often assured Julie she loved her and was her best friend for life, it was during times like these - here, in a police station - that she doubted that. 

More insecurities bubbled to the surface. He wouldn’t put her in some correction centre right? Juvie? Was juvie even allowed? She never dared to look up. Back to therapy? Would he throw her into a boarding school for Untamed Girls - or whatever the fuck it got called? Would he-

“Mija.” His voice made her head snap up, startled. His gentle smile didn’t waver. “I’ve signed. Let’s go.”

Holding his hand out, she willed the tears at bay and grabbed it. The car ride was quiet, the walk to the front door, the ascend to her bedroom, the closing of her door. The tears came then. 

Something had to change, Julie realised in between uncontrollable hiccups. Her father deserved better. He deserved a daughter that wasn’t a ticking time bomb. And God, she wished she didn’t feel the way she so often felt. Pride and guilt, back to back, like a rollercoaster that never stopped and looped and looped and looped. 

Loop. The rush of dopamine after slipping something between the folds of her clothes. 

Loop. The sense of catharsis after yelling and kicking chairs. Only for ten seconds, but enough to make her want to do it again. 

Loop. East LA Police Station. Home away from home. 

Loop. Loop. Loop. 

The next morning, dad slid a pamphlet towards her, her stare drifting from her cereal to the blue paper. Her eyes had been puffy and red when she woke up, but he didn’t remark on it. 

_The Butterfly Room - anger management in group-based activities for teenagers!_

Julie shot him a look. “Really? You’re signing me up for Butterfly?”

The Butterfly Room was a really innocent name for something not so pleasant. When Julie first heard of it, she was seven years old and during one of her first consultations with Dr. Turner. He gave her mother the first dose of meds and said that, if it didn't get better by the time she was a teenager, she might enjoy talking to other kids dealing with the same issues.

That was before her mother died, however, which made everything ten times worse. Had cancer not taken her out, then Julie would’ve probably been somewhat fine still. (Angry, but with a mother that deeply, unconditionally loved her.)

Or maybe she'd still be sitting in a lame circle at three in the afternoon with the other ‘explosive’ kids. Whatever.

After a quick back and forth with her father about why she _shouldn’t_ go, he forced her to go. It was embarrassing, maybe she’d recognise someone, she didn’t want to talk about, who would understand her when every case was unique? None of her arguments held merit and that Saturday afternoon, he dropped her off. Just try it once, he pleaded with her. His idea that she could make new friends planted itself in her head and didn’t let go. It would be cool if she talked to someone other than Flynn. They kind of rotated through the same subjects after a while. 

The Butterfly Room was an open space in a barrack on the outskirts of East Hollywood. From the windows, she could see Griffith Park in the distance. The walls were painted sage, much to Julie’s amusement, with crafts and letters from previous participants scattered around. The floors were a cold grey, though the plush carpet in the middle was a warm purple.

Every chair on that carpet was occupied except one. She sat between the empty one and a girl nervously biting her nails. Julie dug her heels in the fabric, felt how it sunk and suppressed the urge to run out. She’s suppressed it about five times in the last two minutes. Was it always like this? Complete silence until everyone arrived? Couldn’t someone play music, maybe? 

It was probably karma for stealing, she reckoned.

Dr. Harrison smiled as the last person snuck inside. The heavy doors fell shut. Julie’s eyes widened, heart coming to a halt. Shit. It was the guy from the station. The Knee Bouncer. Watching as he plopped down in the chair next to hers, she quickly looked away when he caught her staring. _Please, I won’t rat you out, if you don’t rat me out._

“Hello,” Harrison greeted. Her voice was smooth and steady, just like on the phone. “I’m Petra and I’ll be leading Butterfly. I see we have some newcomers, so let’s go around the room and say your name and why you’re here.” Nodding at the girl to the right, she added: “You begin.”

The girl’s face was twisted in an ugly scowl. “Hey,” she uttered. “I’m Carrie. I’m here because I have anger issues as a result of living with an asshole dad.”

Julie’s brows raised involuntarily. Wow. Did she have to get that specific too? She understood that the point of Butterfly was to open up to these strangers. Confide, hold hands, whatever. But... really? Carrie just outed she had major daddy issues; none of them had to know about her dead mom.

They went around the circle. Though it said on the pamphlet it was for people aged sixteen to twenty-one, they all skewed younger; the oldest - Alex - being nineteen. Nervous jitters pricked her skin with each person that went, another chair closer to her. It was Knee Bouncer’s turn, her curiosity peaking a little. 

“Hey, I’m Luke,” he said, arms crossed. Petra nodded at him, warm. “I like setting shit on fire and I have ADHD. Which is, y’know, where the anger problem thingy comes from.”

Julie almost snorted. If she asked Dr. Turner for a refill for her ‘anger problem thingy,’ the poor man would have an aneurysm. Despite her attempt, Luke noticed and appraised her with a slight frown.

“What?” His voice was cutting. 

“Huh?”

His nose curled up. “Why’re you laughing?”

“I wasn’t!” Raising her hands in surrender, she shot Petra a desperate look. “I didn’t!”

The woman’s gentle expression didn't waver. “Why don't you introduce yourself?”

Alright. That was bound to get annoying. Was that part of her contract? Act like Mother Theresa in the hope it would somehow influence them? With a grumble, Julie relented and addressed her.

“I’m Julie. I sometimes steal stuff and have IED. But then the other way around. I don’t know.”

“Wonderful,” Carrie drawled. “We have a bomb in our midst.”

“And a bitch too, super awesome!” Julie bit back without thinking, matching Carrie’s sardonic grimace. The girl’s expression crashed to a mad pout. What? Did this girl think she’d just let her call a bomb? And why didn't Harrison intervene? Did she _want_ them to get mad? 

She cut it off a beat later. “Girls, there are still others that need to introduce themselves. Have respect for them.”

The tail of the circle finished tersely and ended back with Petra. Julie was ready to flee once more. From the look on her face, it was as if the woman deduced they’d work well together. 

“I’m Petra and I have anger issues. It used to be bad, but I found ways, like Butterfly, to get better at living with it.”

“So,” Reggie said, “this is not... we’re just learning to _live_ with it?”

Her smile turned sympathetic. “Yes. Please do not think this is a balm, a salve, a magical cure. This is not Scientology. Through group therapy and exercises, you will all, hopefully, get better at going through life without being hindered by anger.”

Her hands carefully folded together. Everything about her seemed so calculated, Julie noted. Others caught it too. Luke subtly rolled his eyes at the action. Petra continued unbothered.

“Who would like to go first and talk a bit about their experiences? It can be about anything.” 

After a loaded, five minute silence where Julie figured out how many steps she had to take to get to the exit, Kayla took the leap and went first.

“So, uh.” Her teeth let go of her nails, pressing the ripped up fingers in her lap. “Dance used to help with the anger, but last week I knocked out my coach and she got send to the hospital. I, uh, I gave her a concussion.” Her head ducked, ashamed. “I’ve never done something this bad and I haven’t properly slept since it happened and I just- I feel like a monster.”

“What did she do?”, one asked. 

Kayla shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Maybe,” Carrie said. “Dance is brutal.”

Then the dancer explained she couldn’t get her front aerial perfect and her coach had pushed her to a tipping point. She snapped and pushed the woman into the mirror, rough, the glass hitting her and causing the injury. To Julie, it sounded accidental and more the coach’s fault than hers. Julie told her that too and was surprised when Petra didn’t admonish her for that opinion. 

Thirty minutes went by of conversation flowing between the group. Sometimes someone got judgy or confused, Kayla got angry too, but Julie registered how… normal this felt. Granted, it wasn’t. This wasn’t a natural meeting between friends; she wasn’t even allowed to know their surnames. But Butterfly felt like those mulling thoughts she’d have in her head come to life, all voiced by different people. There was no pity. Just matter of fact-ness that her father or tía or Flynn were never able to muster. Carlos had come close, simply because of his young age and lack of tact. 

A hint of hope swelled in her chest. Whatever would help her not steal, she’d take it. 

Kayla’s story flowed into the first exercise. She’d been the most reluctant about this. If Harrison made her do trust falls, she swore to God… 

“Most of you are new,” Petra commenced after she asked them to put the chairs aside. The purple matt was clear now. “I always think it’s very enlightening and judgement-free by simply looking at one another. You’re allowed to feel whatever, though I’d prefer if you wouldn’t provoke your partner.” Nodding at Alex, he cautiously came towards her. “Let’s say Alex is my partner. We’re going to look into each other’s eyes for at least two minutes. I find that impulsivity and impatience often makes me react poorly. Looking and waiting, however, helps to go against that.”

Julie crossed her arms and legs, lips twisting into dismay. Baring her soul to someone on her first day? What if she cried? Or got mad? Petra said that was fine, but she didn’t want to make an instant impression that she was the troubled one. Then again, weren’t they all? Her eyes flitted past all the faces, unsure of who she’d pick. 

“Wanna be my partner?”

She turned to her right, surprised to see Luke asking her. He matched her expression, begrudgingly joining the exercise. Nodding, they sat down on the carpet and waited for Petra to give the starting signal. 

His eyes were green. That was all she could see. Green, like sea glass. They were hazelnut-shaped and framed with short lashes. Without the yellowy lighting of the police department, he looked younger. Less of a roughhouser and more like the type of guys at her school. Who knew, maybe she even passed him on the street before and didn’t realise. His head was propped on his hand, leaning onto his crossed knee.

Discomfort crawled up her spine. She wanted to stop. She wanted to look away and not have someone stare in her eyes. What did he see? Did he see something weird? Or did he just note brown irises? Should _she_ see something in his? Her teeth bit down on her lower lip and forced herself to keep staring. Two minutes lasted an eternity. 

They were more earnest than she expected. Julie wasn’t sure if that was a thing, if she could even see whether or not someone was earnest through simple eye contact, but it felt real. The green was lively and intent, though not with malice. He was simply looking. The edge of his lip tugged up, almost like a spasm, but then pushed it down again. In return, Julie smiled. 

Luke then matched it, unabashed. It slammed into her like electricity. Was _that_ why this exercise was effective? Becoming taken by someone’s smile? A flicker of anger whispered in the back of her head, accusing Petra of not telling her that part, that she should quit and maybe even accuse Luke of cheating, somehow. Her hands balled. Focus on the green, she urged herself. 

Green, like sea glass. Like seashells. Like bottle of Sprite. Like her mother’s quilt, tucked away in her trunk. Slowly, her breathing evened. 

Petra’s phone beeped. “Two minutes."

Luke beat her to the punch with a deep sigh and tilted his head. “We’ve met at the station.”

Her frame slackened, tension fading from her muscles. “Yeah.” An awkward grin pulled on her cheeks. “Sorry I yelled at you.”

Dismissing it, he placed his hands behind him. “It’s cool.”

“You have nice eyes,” she then said, blunt. It had been on the tip of her tongue. 

He smiled. “Thanks. Yours are nice too.”

Harrison cut through the gentle chatter. “How was it? Who wants to tell me what it was like?”

Alex raised his hand. “I felt weird. Like my thoughts became background noise, which- I mean, that doesn’t happen often.” He grinned. “I might try it out on my boyfriend.”

“Hell yeah!” Luke cheered. “Willie will like that!”

Julie frowned. They knew each other outside of Butterfly? Was that allowed? Her interest peaked at the latter part of his sentence. He had a boyfriend. In all eighteen years of living, Julie never had a boyfriend. (Unless she counted Ricky in second grade, which she didn’t. He threw a basketball at her face on their third day as a couple and she never spoke to him again. Fuck, Ricky.) It just always seemed like a bad gamble. Plus, who would girls like her attract? She didn’t want to attract angry men or actual criminals - she deserved someone like her dad. Unfortunately, eighteen year old boys didn’t have the wisdom of a father yet, so she preferred to wait it out. 

It never occurred to her people in a position similar to hers (Alex, with high anxiety and anger issues triggered after he got disowned for being gay) had romantic relationships. Functioning too, it seemed. Willie must be special. A smile bloomed on her lips, her previous annoyances forgotten. 

Others gave their opinion as well. Luke said he didn’t need to think of music to keep himself from fidgeting. That deeply focusing on her eyes kind of helped stilling him. 

“A minute longer and I wouldn’t have been able to hold it though,” he added. 

Harrison turned to her. “What about you, Julie?”

“Uh…” Avoiding Luke’s gaze, she kept hers trained on Petra. “It was weird, like he was seeing through me. It made me angry, who would've thought!” 

The group chuckled, levity easing the tightness in her chest. It propelled her to keep talking. “But once I got passed that, it was nice.”

“Great,” Harrison smiled. “You can all stay on the floor. The last thing we’ll do today is work on mindfulness. It sounds silly maybe, but I know some of you already practise meditation."

Half the group raised their hand, Julie feeling out of place not being one of them. She tried it a few times, but it always left her more frustrated than when she began. A car rumbling by, siren in the distance, her dad calling someone, Carlos’ videogames, her general lack of patience towards the stupid ‘zen master’ that had to guide her through the steps on that meditation app. The eye contact exercise went well though, so she had to give this a chance too. 

“Find a spot on the floor,” she continued. “You can sit, lay down. Whatever you want.”

Julie decided to keep sitting, legs crossed and back straight. Laying would be less strenuous, but she didn’t trust the group quite yet to be so vulnerable. 

“Close your eyes. Listen to my voice. You might hear the cars outside or the breathing of the people around you, but all that will fade. Simply listen to the sound of my voice. Go inside yourself, feel the way you’re breathing. Is it deep or short? Quick? Breathe into the nose and out through the mouth. Slowly.”

Julie followed her directions, still hyper-aware of everything around her. The pinch between her brows probably gave her away. 

“If you notice your attention is not on the breath, gently guide it back.” Harrison’s voice was lulling, low like in a dream. Julie felt her eyes droop behind her lids. “Feel your lungs filling with oxygen, feel it pushing it back out. How it calms your muscles, how your spine, every vertebrae, relaxes.”

She kept droning on for minutes. In the end, Julie didn’t feel mindful or relaxed, rather tired, but wouldn’t mind trying again. It worked for Carrie and Kayla, she noticed, envious of the former. How come the mean one got to be good at meditation? 

Then it was over. Petra thanked them for coming and hoped to see them all next Saturday. One by one, they trickled out The Butterfly Room into broad daylight. Her eyes squinted. She was only inside for two hours, but it felt like an entire day. It wasn’t even dinnertime yet. Her dad hasn’t arrived, his car absent from the parking lot. 

From her left, she saw how Alex and Luke hugged goodbye, the blonde letting go first and walking to one of the cars. In the driver’s seat sat a young guy, not much older than her, with tanned skin and long, dark hair. Willie, she deduced, confirmed by the quick kiss Alex gave him when he got in the passenger seat.

“They’re like, crazy in love,” Luke commented, suddenly next to her.

He looked like a caricature against the bland frontage of the barrack. His muscle tee was some obscure European band, a bright orange beanie keeping wild strands of hair in array, chains and charms dangling from his black trousers. 

His nose scrunched. “Think ‘Romeo and Juliet’ but then gay and they don’t die.”

“So,” she blinked. “Not ‘Romeo and Juliet’.”

“I don’t read a lot.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “What made you come to Butterfly?”

She frowned. “Uh, the same reason you’re here? Anger?”

He waved it off. “Yeah, I mean…” Pondering, he shook his head. “I don’t know what I meant. I’m just curious. I’ll see you Saturday?” 

“Wait,” she sputtered out. From the corner of her eye, she saw her dad’s Nissan drive up the lot. “How do you know Alex like that? I thought we weren’t supposed to, like, know each other outside of this.”

“Yeah, if you’ve been here for a year, that’s kind of impossible,” he joked. “Me and Alex jam sometimes. He’s a beast on the drums.”

Music. A concept she hasn’t encountered in a while. Swallowing back the onslaught of questions, she jabbed her thumb at the black vehicle. “Uh, that’s me. And that’s really cool.” She hoped the smile was genuine. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

It was. He smiled back, spun on his heels to the bike rack and yelled a ‘bye!’ over his shoulder. Julie rushed to the car and practically threw herself into safety, its leather couches a cocoon after hours of abnormalcy. 

Excited, dad drummed his fingers against the wheel. “And? How was it? Was it fun? Are they nice? How’s Miss Harrison?”

“Petra,” she breathed, massaging her temples. “And I’m tired, dad.”

His lips curled downward as he drove back onto the street. “You took your meds, right?”

Her teeth clenched, voice clipped. “Yeah, this morning, like always. I’m just tired. It was… a lot.”

“Do you want to go back next week?”

There were pros and cons. Cons: it was a Saturday afternoon, she’d have to look at Carrie’s glowering face, she wouldn’t be able to hang with Flynn, she’d likely have to do exercises she didn’t like or wouldn’t be able to complete. She’d have to open up too if she kept up regular appearances. Was she ready for that? To let the ugliest coilings of her thoughts bleed onto the purple carpet for these strangers to inspect? 

Pros: people that understood her, to some degree, and wouldn’t judge too harshly. New people to possibly become friends with, like Luke. Petra’s kind smile. A few hours during the week where she couldn’t fuck up; a few hours where she couldn’t find herself at an Ulta or Target or Urban Outfitters. Luke’s green eyes like her mother’s quilt. 

Biggest pro: letting the thoughts bleed and them allowing it to happen. That was perhaps the most exhilarating prospect of all. 

Her nail scratched against the window, pensive. East LA passed her in a blur, soon crossing over to Los Feliz. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I want to.”

The next few weeks were virtually the same. They went around the circle if someone new was there, or someone instantly recapped an experience they had. Julie hadn’t done that yet, but it was nice to chip in with her opinion on a subject. To be heard and taken into account. It wasn’t always the best opinion, but none of theirs were. She’d been in a better mood too. Since the first meeting, she hasn’t had any big blow-outs nor did she give into the urge to steal. Just last week, she stared at a nail polish display for five minutes. Knowing her, she’d take it and then put it back an hour later when the guilt kicked in, but then Flynn called her to vent about FIDM drama and her focus got redirected. 

Week five fucked her over. School gave her detention for skipping the first few classes (apparently feeling sad over a dead mom wasn’t a good excuse) and then she started fighting with the teacher during detention and when some kid starting arguing with her, she threw an eraser at his face. It hit his cheek and the teacher got more peeved. That she was a nuisance, that she shouldn’t use violence (throwing an eraser?), that she shouldn’t feel so entitled. It had been enough for her to stomp out the room and slam the door shut, wishing it flung from its hinges when she did. 

Then she kicked over a row of bicycles, took the bus to the boulevard, copped a purple nail polish - the colour of the carpet at Butterfly - and locked herself in her room for the rest of the night. 

Julie stomped inside Butterfly last, grabbing everyone’s attention as she collapsed in her seat and dug the small bottle from her hoodie pocket. Throwing it on the carpet, she crossed her arms with a huff. 

“I stole this and I hate myself for it.”

Carrie pouted, pink-painted lips puckered. “Contraband make-up. Cute.”

“Carrie,” Petra warned, her voice dropping to a blaring red warning sign. “That’s not nice.”

“Julie calling me a bitch is not nice either!”

“I apologised for that!”, Julie yelled back, recalling week three when she and Carrie were partnered up for a writing exercise.

They had to write all the ‘I feel’ and ‘I think’ sentences they could think of. Carrie wrote how she was hurt by Julie calling her a bitch and she then apologised for it. Sure, it had been a bit half-assed, but she _did_ do it! 

Petra focused back on her. “Why did you steal it, Julie?” It held no judgement, like always. Still, it infuriated her. _Be angry!_ she wanted to scream. Aside from her dad, she wasn’t quite used to authority being so forgiving yet.

“Multiple things,” she grumbled. “People pissed me off. I got angry. I’m not _allowed_ to be angry, so I stole something. I don’t even need it though. I already have purple nail polish.” Her heels dug in the carpet again, harsher this time. It left a dent when she kicked it. More annoyances spit from her lips. “I got detention for not going to school, even though I had a really good reason-”

“You want to tell us that reason?”

“No.” She frowned. “No, I’d rather not. Sorry.”

“That fine,” Petra smiled. “Continue.”

“Like, they’re not _listening_ to me. And for them, I’m just being a brat even though they know that I have IED. It’s in my file. I know I shouldn’t get special treatment, but-”

“No,” Alex interrupted. “Maybe not ‘special’ treatment, but they should be accommodating.”

Kayla nodded. “I have a separate dressing room if I need it. I haven’t yet, but it’s nice to know it’s there.”

She faltered, heat dwindling from her tongue. “You… they’ve done that for you?”

A smile grew on the girl’s lips, never not picking at her nails. “My coach forgave me for what I did and asked the board to give me a room.”

Luke perked up next to her. “What d’you do if you can’t steal shit?”

This halted Julie completely. “What?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “You’re with your parents or something and you get mad, but you can’t leave. What do you do?”

It was the ugliest part of her, maybe. Whenever she couldn’t move, whenever she felt trapped by her anger, it curled within her like an insidious beast and seared her emotions till they were burned and numb. Then she sat on her bed and stared into nothingness and prayed for her mother to lure the beast out of her again. 

It was preservation, Julie called it. As to not hurt her brother or father. It was unfortunate she couldn’t preserve herself in the process. 

“Then… I’m just angry,” she carefully uttered. “What do you do?”

He smirked. “I trash my room.”

“Or else you…?”

“Last time was a garbage can. Minor-” His fingers pinched together. “-incident.”

The casualty with which he spoke about arson got a giggle out of her, averting her eyes from his ridiculous face. But then she caught Reggie’s confused one and that made her laugh even more - until she burst into a hysterical fit of giggles with tears streaming down her face. Alex and Luke snickered along with her, Kayla and Reggie hiding their smiles behind their hands. 

Luke’s joke wasn’t even that funny. It wasn’t funny _at all,_ but somehow, it was the best thing she has heard all week. 

Wheezing for air, a beaming Julie wiped the moisture from her cheeks. She couldn’t keep the smile down, a silly grin twitching to stay composed. Her eyes locked with Luke again and tried to straighten their faces. 

“Sorry,’ she giggled at Petra. “I don’t know why-”

“Don’t apologise for laughing, Julie,” the woman but in, matching her silly face. “Never apologise for that.”

“Unless you’re at a funeral,” Reggie pointed out, a few other humming in agreement. 

Petra’s smile widened. “Yes. Unless you’re at a funeral.” Folding her hands in the way that was so quintessentially her, she added: “Have you tried art therapy?” 

The last laughter died down, all of a sudden a more serious switch in conversation. Julie pressed her lips together. Right. It was _her_ that opened up and threw a bottle of polish on the carpet. It was easier to follow along as Harrison gave others advice, than being the centre of attention.

She tucked her curls behind her ears. “When I was younger,” Julie mused, the unspoken ‘before my mom died’ hanging in the air. Dad told her minimally about that, but Julie could tell she caught it from the shifting look in her eye. “My psychiatrist let me colour my emotions. After a while I thought it was dumb and stopped and he didn’t force me to continue.”

Harrison hummed. “Forcing wouldn’t have helped anyway. I saw your drawing during the art exercise two weeks ago. You’re very creative. Why don’t you try again. Maybe not on paper. Maybe on canvas or textile or your bedroom walls. Would you give that a chance?”

Alex leaned forward. “I did it last year and it really helped me.”

“I remember that!” Kayla perked. “You did that mural in LF, right?”

The discussions trickled from Julie’s problem to art in general, Alex talking about how much it has helped his anxiety and how dance was a similar thing in regards to Kayla. Then Luke started babbling about his electric guitar, how he mastered an ACDC song and was dying to play it somewhere. Julie listened attentively. There was something exciting about hearing an impassioned speech about music right beside her, without the person knowing her history. 

Julie played piano, wonderfully so, until her mom died. (Everything lead back to Rose, she realised, but could anyone blame her when it truly used to feel like the universe was made to fit her mother?) Her singing was never up to par with her playing, though she enjoyed doing it just as much. When her mom passed, she was apart of the music program at LF Arts High School, but when she didn’t perform for a year and their good graces were spent, she dropped out of the program and decided it was better to simply go to public school. Being _around_ art and not participating hurt too.

It has been four years though. She listened to music and could handle other people talking about it. The piano was catching dust in the studio. Maybe someday, she’d be ready. 

For now, it was nice to prop her head on her hand and listen to Luke gush about his first attempts at songwriting. 

“Colour my emotions, Julie,” Luke teased at the end of the session. She was sitting in the parking lot waiting on her dad (LA traffic was a bitch), when Luke dropped on the asphalt beside her.

She looked up from her phone. “What?” Her eyes fell on his opened hand, cupping the polish. Oh. She forgot to pick it up. A smile pulled on her lips. “Want me to paint your nails?”

He regarded the colour for a beat and then shrugged, handing her the bottle. He repositioned himself to sit in front of her, Julie grabbing his hand and placing it in her lap. Carefully, she began on his thumb. 

“How long have you been going to Butterfly?”, she murmured when she finished the first nail. “You seem like you already know a lot.”

His bony fingers weren’t able to stay still, shaky, making it hard for her to stay within the lines. Her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth, focused. 

His head rolled back, eyes trained on the dull blue sky. “A bit over a year. Now I’m just kinda going for the good vibes. Like, I still have my shit going on, or else Petra wouldn’t allow me to come, but it’s… it’s going better. It’s been worse.” He chuckled. “You should’ve seen me last year. Throwing with shit non-stop.”

“Yeah?”

“Petra got me on the guitar. She saw me listening to music before and after every session and gave me her son’s old guitar. It was just meant to get rid of pent-up energy, but _damn,_ it’s my life now, dude.”

Twisting his hand to get better access to his pinky, she shot him a smile. “And that- making music is making things better?”

He levelled her smile just as brightly, perhaps even more. At a first glance, one wouldn’t even think something was off about him. Only a keen eye like hers, focused on his hands, could see it was rougher around the knuckles. Thick, scarred skin. Luke must’ve been in many, _many_ fights. 

“Yep. Just me, my Ritalin and an old-ass guitar.”

She tapped against his hand. “I’m done. Your other hand too?”

He nodded, exchanging hands and looking at the finished one in wonder. 

“Don’t touch it.”

His nose curled up. “It smells bad.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “It’s a chemical, so.”

He blinked, incredulous. “You lured me into putting chemical shit on my hands?”

She shook her head, giggling. Jeez. What was _up_ with her today? The only times she was this giddy was with Flynn when they were binging romcoms. 

Her grip on his hand tightened as she exclaimed: “It’s safe! Don’t be a baby!”

“I’m not!”, he yelled, very much like a petulant child. Her teeth bit down on another giggle, forcing herself to keep her chill. She should’ve known she’d start acting like an idiot when she made a new friend. Flynn essentially adopted her when she arrived at LF Public, not much ‘befriending’ needed for them to become soul-sisters. 

With Luke, it was exciting. They knew so much about each other, yet nothing at the same time. Perhaps knowing the ugly parts before the good parts prepped them for casual conversations like these. It was easier to call him out on being a baby then discuss his turbulent relationship with his mother. 

“You’re doing it again, y’know,” he mumbled. 

A brow quirked, her completely bent over his middle finger to get a good coat on. 

“Not laughing.”

She scoffed. “Are you Petra’s pet or something?”

His hand slipped away, causing her to meet his eye. Luke frowned as he scratched his chin, bits of purple staining his skin. Was he not looking at her like that, she’d have the heart to make him aware of it. “No. It’s me and like, freaking humanity, saying that it’s dumb to bite back a smile.”

Her eyes squinted, amused. “Humanity.”

“Yeah,” he nodded fervently, like he was saying some deep shit that would change her life. “Humanity. Life’s shit. At least smile while you’re going _through_ the shit.”

“That’s toxic positivity.”

“You’re on Instagram too much,” he pointed out. 

She reached forward and flicked his chin. “And you have nail polish on your face.”

His jaw fell slack, horrified when he realised he’s been touching his face the entire time. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

“You told me to smile!”, she retorted, equally undignified. 

Luke groaned, his back falling on the ground and arms jerking up, as if ranting to the sky. “Not in that toxic boy way! You were _forcing_ yourself _not_ to smile! That’s bullshit!”

And that was when it happened again. That idiotic smile of hers breaking through like a sun peeking between the grey clouds. Or as if the dull blue of the sky right now were to be saturated to an intense azure. (Or she was just smiling. God, why was he making her overthink this?) His head tilted to look at her, proud, like some fucking soccer mom. 

Her foot tapped against his calf. “You’re not doing God’s work.”

“No,” he admitted, a smirk playing on his lips. She wondered how long he practised that one in the mirror. “But I got you to paint my nails and smile - for _free._ That’s god-like work in LA.”

Dad’s car rolled up the parking lot, Julie hoisting herself up with a sigh. Luke twisted his neck, noting the car, and shot her a disappointed look. 

“Leaving me?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I’ll see you Saturday. And you’ll get it off with make-up remover. Soap won’t work.”

A string of low curses slipped from his mouth as she ran to the car, the smile still not washing away. Dad tried to catch a look at Luke, but the boy was still on his back at an odd angle. 

“Who’s that?”, he asked. The passenger door slammed shut. 

“Luke.” Fiddling with the radio and deciding that, _yes,_ now felt like a good time to listen to music, she added: “He’s in Butterfly.”

The two watched Luke for a beat, how he stretched his hands again and began drawing shapes in the air, as if whatever he traced would be conjured from the clouds. Then he flexed them, admiring her meticulous work. Julie averted her eyes to her lap, giddy. 

It was nice to have a new friend. 

That night, Julie unearthed the paints from when she was little from beneath her bed. Most were dried and cracked, one tube of red still usable. It would do. Dipping a stiff paintbrush in the blob of red, she let her hand make the first stroke onto the cream walls of her bedroom. 

The red was shocking. Her hand withdrew, as if zapped with electricity, and stared in wonder at the flash of colour. Her room was a collection of muted blues, oranges and greens. Nothing was this vibrant. It looked ugly. She bit her lip. It looked _really_ ugly. The brush hovered by the wall, hesitant. Should she continue? It could only get worse, she reckoned. Her dad wouldn’t get too mad, but she could imagine Victoria being disappointed for ruining her walls. 

But wasn’t this her channelling whatever she had inside of her for _good?_ That streak of impulsivity, usually getting her in trouble, now used in the name of art? Maybe if she got ugly on purpose, she’d lash out less without meaning to.

Julie snorted. Her brain might be chemically imbalanced, but the universe always kept some sort of karmic balance. Even if it didn’t, it now made sense to her. 

Julie Molina had to make ugly art on purpose. She had to be _messy._

With that, a new, confident streak of red slathered itself on the wall. The girl bounced on her heels, a quiet thrill tickling her spine. A _good_ thrill. 

She went to bed around three am, completely exhausted from painting an expressionist, cacophonous landscape. It was red, red, red - Claude Monet would’ve despised her. Amidst the red meadow were two silhouettes. One being her, the other her new friend. In a few hours, she’d rush to the store and buy all the paints her wallet would allow. She’d cast her homework aside, she’d mute her phone, she’d think about the teachers and the nail polish and her mom and her dad and Luke and Flynn and Butterfly, and then she’d paint. 

It didn’t extinguish the flames. If the meds didn’t do it entirely, then paint wouldn’t either. But they mellowed, like a candle, like something she could touch and not hurt herself instantly. Her brain shut off for a few hours, entranced by the repetition of dipping her brush and finding new things to paint. More colours were added to the mix. Cobalt blues, burned oranges, acid greens, deep browns. As Sunday fell into its golden hour, a swirling henna design weaved its way from one corner to the other. 

“Wow.”

Startled, Julie’s eyes were ripped from the wall to the door. “What?”, she bit, correcting herself when she heard her tone and saw it was Carlos. She repeated herself, softer. “What?”

The boy was in awe, his baseball attire dirtied and sweaty, clearly side-tracked on his journey to the shower. “When you said you were gonna paint, I thought you meant on, like, an easel or something.”

She shrugged. “The wall’s more fun.”

“Does dad know?”

“He won’t care,” she dismissed. 

Carlos paused, relenting. “True. Alright. Pretty dope, sis. I’m gonna shower.”

“Yeah,” she yelled after his retreating figure, eyes fixed on a flower design. “You stink!”

 _“You_ stink!”

The following Saturday was a rough time for Carrie and Reggie. Carrie talked about how the mere mention of her father made her deliriously livid and Reggie got in a physical altercation with his brother. Julie’s positive evolution was unimportant then, the girl preferably supportive of her Butterfly-mates instead of boasting about the art on her walls. Luke’s scratched up nail polish, not quite gone, made her smile though. 

“Try to visualise a knot, Carrie,” Petra proposed. Her hands were folded like always. “See yourself slowly unravelling the knot. It’s your frustration and anger and whatever else you’re feeling. Would you like to explain that knot to us?”

The furrow in her brow looked etched in stone, deep and dark and cutting. Julie felt bad for her, sympathy hitting her in the chest. Maybe she shouldn’t hold so much animosity towards the girl; they were all essentially in the same boat. 

Carrie sighed. “I hate my dad. I hate him. And I hate that I hate him. Cause he… he’s given me _everything._ I’m rich. I’m rich and popular and I can have everything I want. And I’m mad all the time, like, all the time, it never stops, and it’s always with guilt. Because to the outside world, I have no reason to be mad. They’d all be like: ‘Who does she think she is? Daddy’s girl with an attitude? What a cliché.’ Like, yeah, no shit.” She laughed at her own comment. “This knot, miss Harrison? It always ends with me hating my dad. It ends with me-”

Her words stopped short. A pin could fall. Everyone in the room stared at her, wide-eyed and awed. It must’ve been Carrie’s first time really opening up too. 

Her tongue clicked. “It ends with me hating him and fearing - _ew_ \- that I’ll end up like him. Or like my mother. But, I don’t know, I’ve never met the woman. So.” Leaning back in her chair, her jaw squared up. It indicated she was done talking, Julie has deduced by now. When Carrie didn’t want to talk, even if she was mid-sentence, she’d stick to her guns. 

Petra knew this too, nodding thoughtfully. “Thank you, Carrie, for untangling that knot.”

She nodded tersely, looking down at her chunky sneakers. 

“Do you resent your dad?” Julie spoke up without realising, Carrie shooting her a surprised look. “For… not telling you? Who your mom is?” Grimacing, she shook her head. “That’s a bad question, uh-”

“Yeah,” Carrie quipped. Her lower lip jutted out, pensive. “I do. Knowing him, it was probably some drunk girl outside a bar in WeHo.” 

“Damn,” Luke and Reggie muttered simultaneously. 

Kayla followed up. “Do you want to know who it is?”

“No.” Her answer was resolute. Doubt flickered in her doll eyes, glancing at Petra. “That’s not weird, right? Resenting him, but also not wanting to know?”

The woman shook her head. “No, it’s not weird. I bet it’s very confrontational and that there’s a chance you might not like the answer.” 

Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes, all of sudden looking younger than she was. Her expertly done make-up often made her look twenty-one, or even older, but Carrie wasn’t even a senior yet. Dread brew in Julie’s stomach. She wished she could come over and give her a hug, except one of the rules was that the person had to ask themselves. Some didn’t handle physical touch well and she didn’t want to provoke anything. Sitting on her hands, Julie watched as silent sobs trickled down Carrie’s cheeks. 

“Can-” Swallowing back saliva, she pushed through. “Can Kayla give me a hug?”

The girl was out of her seat in no time, rushing to the other side of the circle and wrapping her arms around the brunette. They hugged in complete silence, arms tight and digging into their t-shirts. 

For the group activity, Petra had the idea to play Human Knot. It made everyone chuckle, including Carrie, and it caused a lot of raucous laughter. It was perhaps the most gentle handling of Knot ever, none of them daring to yank on someone too hard. 

Julie whirled around her axis as she got pulled to the left, suddenly face to face with Luke. A smile involuntarily came to her lips. “Hi.”

“Hey - oof!” Luke, not paying attention, followed Kayla under Alex’ arm. 

They were back on the parking lot waiting on her dad, Julie drawing with pen on his forearm instead of painting his nails. 

“Carrie has been stone cold for _six_ months,” Luke mused. “Six. We got nothin’ out of her. Petra told us to give it time. I didn’t think it was this heavy.”

Shading the lightning bolt, Julie bit down on her lip. “It is. I was such a bitch to her that first day-”

“Dude, she was too.”

“Yeah,” she relented. “But still. We’re all here for the same reason. I shouldn’t have called her a bitch.”

Luke sputtered. “She called you an even worse B-word!” Pausing, he craned his neck to look at her sketches. “That looks cool. When I’m out of my folks’ house, I’m getting a tattoo.”

“Of a lightning bolt?”

He hummed, an index finger adorned with two silver rings tapping against the outline. “Cause I’m electric.”

Julie giggled at his idiocy, tilting her head. “You’re a Tesla?”

He got in her face, grinning. “I’m a fucking rocket. Shooting for the moon and all that shit.”

Shaking off his ridiculous statements (she swore he spouted one-liners like that as if he had them ready to go in his mind), she answered his earlier exclaim. “Yeah, calling me a ‘bomb’ is low. She’s not the first, but…”

“Julie, it’s fucked.”

“Yeah.”

He hesitated. “Is it… I don’t know how similar it is to ADHD. Probably really different, yeah?”

She pursed her lips. Over the years, she has tried to explain to many what it was like to have IED. For some reason, it always ended with the person trying to seperate the disorder from her, personally. But she and IED were… well, intertwined. She wouldn’t be who she was, positive and negative, without it. It wasn’t like she carried it in her purse and could leave it at home if she pleased. (God, how great would that be?!) 

Though she knew Luke wouldn’t be a harsh judge, she didn’t know how she’d feel if he was dismissive. Or reduced it to something similar to what he had. They were in the same program, but they definitely didn’t think or act the same. 

“Uh…” _Untangle the knot._ “I’m chronically angry. That’s in a nutshell what it is. If it weren’t for my meds, I wouldn’t be- I wouldn’t be doing too great.” She backtracked. “I wouldn’t be _dangerous_ or something. I’m just angry all the time. And sometimes I’ll have an explosive outburst, without warning, and very short. The last one was, uh, when you saw me. At the police station. I got caught stealing at Zara and then had a complete temper tantrum.”

She grimaced at the memory. It was definitely one of her lowest lows so far. His earnest expression urged her to continue. 

“But it’s the very typical stuff in general. Snapping, irritation, shouting. The big ones don’t happen much. Like, every few months.” Counting the weeks in her head, she grinned. “It’s been seven weeks since a big one. That’s good. And I haven’t stolen anything since the nail polish. And I’m painting. I’m doing good.”

He slapped her knee, face sarcastic. “Why’re you even here to begin with? Model citizen right here!”

Julie rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “How are _you_ doing? Trying to emulate Kurt Cobain?” Nodding at his Nirvana t-shirt with mock, Luke stuck his tongue out. 

“Very funny. And Nirvana slaps.”

Mischief danced behind her irises. “Can I draw a naked baby on your arm?”

Just as he was about to agree, he decided against it with a scowl, muttering something about his parents and then rolling up his pants. “Do my ankle.”

Her elbow leaned onto his foot, grinning. “It’s going to be a _hairy_ baby.”

 _“Hairy?_ What do you- oh yeah.” He plucked at his leg hair, goofy, and Julie realised the parking lot might be her favourite spot ever. “What was your question again?”

The sudden revelation was pushed aside. “How you’re doing. With music, with… with whatever. Maybe tell me how your brain works.”

“The Brain Of Luke,” he spelled out, hands above his head like flourishing a banner. He dropped the act with an easy smile. “Just typical ADHD stuff, I think. I can’t keep my thoughts in order, just going from one thing to the next. Which is why music is nice. It’s one of the only things that keeps me focused. The only thing I’ve kept up for that long too. And the setting shit on fire…”

Suddenly, Luke slammed shut. He tucked his leg beneath him, away from her grasp and closed his lips till the smile disappeared. It felt as if the ground vanished, levity gone from the air and leaving her flailing for something to hold. 

Her hands clenched around her knees instead. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

The boy slowly nodded. In the distance, dad’s car appeared. She cursed its image. Why did he have to arrive at the worst possible timing? Then again, maybe Luke wanted to be left alone. 

“Sorry,” she tried again. “I-”

“It’s fine, Julie,” he cut off. A smile pressed on his lips, the fakest one she’s ever seen of him. “Honestly. Your dad’s here.”

She held her breath as she stood up. “I’ll see you Saturday?”

He nodded. Her fists tightened until her nails bore in the plump skin of her palms. He didn’t say anything else, eyes glassy and fixed on the treetops of the faraway Griffith Park. Wordlessly, she clambered in the car and silently thanked her father for picking up on the tell-tale signs. Clenched hands, jaw, rigid stance, tremor in her eyes. Her ribcage clung against her lungs, tight and forcing her heart to beat like a marathon. 

Paint flung against her windowsill in raging hands sweeps. The sound it made, like thick rain hitting the top of a car, propelled her to continue and hear it again. Splatters of red, blue and yellow fought to be seen; like some Pollock wannabe. 

Every throw yanked the muscles in her arms, all that energy centering itself. Her thoughts whispered she’d feel better if she stole something from the grocery store. A quick kick of dopamine - to then ignore the ugly face of shame that inevitable came after. The paint hit the wood harder each time the tantalising idea came back. She kept hitting and painting and throwing till her arm ached. Till it fell to her side, limp and pounding, and she realised with a frown that she didn’t cover the windows. Now she had to clean those when she really was _not_ in the mood and-

Gah!

What did Dr. Turner say? Reframing negative thought patterns? Her back slumped, eyes lazily tracking the mess she made. Maybe she had to start planning her paint sessions, to always have covers ready. 

Taking a deep breath, she collected her thoughts. Luke didn’t mean to make her angry. He had probably been angry about something and shut her out so he didn’t hurt her. She did the same with Carlos. He wasn’t angry _at_ her - Julie emphasised every syllable in her mind - _he wasn’t angry at her._ She must’ve _said_ something that triggered him, unwillingly, and that caused his reaction. Next Saturday, they’d be fine again. She hoped so, at least. Kayla and her have become tentative friends, but she was definitely closest to Luke. 

She didn’t know what she’d do if she wasn’t allowed to draw on him during week eight. 

Whatever match she lit last week, was still alive and well by next Saturday. Luke wasn’t trashing the place, but his knee was bouncing up and down at lightning speed as his fingers tapped a fast rhythm on the arm of the chair. Petra didn’t waste time with pleasantries, zeroing in on Luke. 

“Luke?”

Julie almost didn’t sit next to him today, fearing he wouldn’t want her to, but was now glad she remained stubborn. His head shot up, lips curled into an angry twist, and stuck his hand out. 

“Julie, can you-” He sighed. “Can you please hold my hand?”

It barely registered, her hand already reaching for his and softly gripping it. Alex, a few seats away, watched the action happening with curious eyes.

“I, uh, I thought I was fine.” It came out as a statement, Luke staring straight ahead. “I thought that I was just going to Butterfly, cause, you know, precaution or something. I don’t know. But every day I’m literally counting the days till I can come back cause home is not… it’s not good. It’s really, really, really not good. I haven’t talked to my dad in days, my mom, she- she hasn’t talked to me in months. We don’t talk. We- last time she looked at me was when I put that garbage can on fire, y’know, the one from, uh, I don’t know, a while ago. I thought I had it under control. But then I remembered how she didn’t even _talk_ to me when it happened. Dad just scolded me, but my mom, she didn’t. And it usually works. Normally-”

Some nod, some frown as they try to understand. Julie kept a straight face, focused on the task of holding his hand and making him feel safe.

Luke pushed through. _“Normally,_ it gets her attention. And last week I remembered how it doesn’t anymore. Like, I was already planning to move out. But I didn’t- she’s gonna throw me out. I know that now. She doesn’t have to say that for me to know. So, now I’m just like: ‘Let’s save her the trouble, yeah?’ But I still wanna get my diploma. I can’t fuck that up too. So I’m just in that house, every day, waiting to come back here, and I know my mom hates me and my dad probably does too and I don’t have a space to play guitar and- I mean, I sometimes play with Alex, but… I just… the one thing that used to give me some… some sense on control…”

She squeezed his hand. It got the last words out. “It’s gone. Like, last night, I had to literally fight myself to not burn dad’s office. I almost-” His breath shuddered. “I almost did it. I just needed to feel that relief of having them _acknowledge_ me. Look at me. That I haven’t become a ghost.”

The ominous ending landed upon the group like a suffocating blanket. Luke squeezed back even harder, their skin turning an ashy grey at the pressure points. His eyes were shiny from unshed tears, lips trembling, breaths trying to level themselves. Julie twitched to embrace him. 

Petra licked her lips. It was the first time Julie had seen her so speechless. She wondered how deep her connection with Luke went, seeing as she gave the boy an old guitar of her own son. How she allowed him to keep coming, even when he was seemingly the most well-adjusted of the group. 

It didn’t even process for her that Luke started fires to get noticed by his _parents._ All she could think about was that Petra probably saved him. Had she not given him that guitar. Had she not opened her doors for him. Had she not been her. The way Luke often mirrored her words made sense too now. 

Her other hand folded over his, caressing his knuckles. 

Finally, Petra spoke. It didn’t have its normal smooth cadence. “You’re not a ghost, Luke. Every person in this room sees you, appreciates you, respects you. And you should be proud of yourself for giving your parents that same level of respect. That’s strong, it shows you’ve grown from last year.”

When she faltered, Alex picked it up. “Dude, you’re allowed to stay with Willie and I once you get that diploma. You know that, right? You don’t have to worry about that. You won’t be living on the streets.”

Carrie flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Fuck your parents, honestly.”

Others murmured in agreement. Kayla perked up however. “How do you feel about your parents?”

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I legit don’t know. I think they’re shit. I think they’re… doing what they think is right. I miss them. I don’t know.”

“What do you miss?”, Julie whispered. 

His eyes locked with hers, the beautiful sea glass green drowning in sorrow. “Before we moved to- to where we are now. I used to live in Orange County. Like, years ago. More than ten, I think. Whatever. It just used to be better. Then I- I messed around with a campfire. On the beach. And I burned my dad. It was an accident, but, I don’t know, I don’t know what then clicked for me; that fire gave me the attention I needed. I don’t know. I don’t know what I miss.”

Frustrated by his own spiel, he rubbed his free hand across his face, as if that would clean his mind from the words. No one said anything for a while.

He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

Harrison decided to scrap her planned activity and instead focus on mindfulness again. 

They meditated for a long time. Luke never let go of her hand. During savasana, it almost felt too intimate, until Julie reminded herself she was in a barrack with eleven other people. And that it shouldn’t even _feel_ intimate, cause Luke was her _friend_ and he simply needed comfort. It was stupid her heart fluttered at the thought. It was stupid her stomach whooped when he laced their fingers together. (God, her body was such a traitor.)

Their hug on the parking lot was inevitable. After everyone left, Alex giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder before stepping in Willie’s war, one glance was needed for them to pull each other in. His strong arms fully wrapped around her, warm and safe, and she hoped hers had the same effect. His head rested atop her curls, nose digging into the crown. Her smile, caused be the strange relief of having him so close, was hidden by his plaid shacket. Absentminded fingers glided across his back, making drawings like she always did. The gentle thud of his heart kept her right where she was. 

She almost asked whether he still wanted his baby tattoo on his ankle, when one hand slid up between her shoulder blades and massaged the space. It was so unexpected, so _nice,_ that they stayed in that position until her dad rolled in the lot. 

(Julie dreamed of Luke that night. He kissed her senselessly while she drew shapes upon his skin. He sang for her and she, secretly, sang too. The dream didn’t hurt.) 

“Is he like…” Flynn pondered, voice barely audible above the boisterous noise of the cafeteria. It was a rainy day, which resulted in all the years being cooped inside a space with terrible acoustics. A headache was building behind her eyes. “Your therapy boyfriend?”

Julie snorted. “No. And that sounds _so_ wrong.”

“You know what I mean,” she teased. “And what else am I supposed to think? You doodle on his _body_ and hold each other’s hand when you’re talking.” Sighing, she added: “I wish you had a picture of him. Are you _sure_ you don’t know his last name?”

“If I knew, you would’ve known it by now.”

Flynn tutted her lips. “True. Okay, let me rephrase my question.” A playful smile played on her lips, wiggling her shoulders. “Do you _want_ him to be your boyfriend?”

Did she? She barely found out her feelings for him were rather unplatonic, all her dreams suddenly consisting of his smile and laugh and the way her inky doodles looked on his pale skin. Their hug, so quiet and _real,_ felt unlike anything she’s ever experienced. Her family was known for hugs, and yet this one had been extraordinary. Like she could hold him forever. Was that insane? God, it was insane. She wasn’t equipped for this. 

“I don’t know,” she huffed, stabbing her salad with the plastic fork. “He probably doesn’t even-”  
  
“No,” she cut off, hand up. “No low self-esteem talk. You’re drop dead gorgeous, Jules.”

Julie quirked a brow, amused. “I think you mean yourself.”

“I mean the _both_ of us.”

“Look.” She placed her cutlery down and crossed her arms. “The only reason we know each other, is because we have problems with controlling our _anger._ That’s not really my ideal meet-cute. We just know how to be comforting.”

Flynn blinked, unimpressed. “Meet-cute? Julie, this isn’t a movie. Sure, it’s…” An awkward chuckle left her lips. “Unorthodox, the way you guys met. But why not take a chance? You gravitated towards each other for a reason.” 

Her friend had a point there. One insecurity incessantly gnawed at her though. Had Flynn not been attentively listening, she wouldn’t have heard Julie’s words. 

“What if I hurt him?” A nervous pause. “What if he hurts me?”

Flynn didn’t know about Luke’s affinity to fire, nor did she see the ugly sides of IED. She knew _a lot,_ but Julie found that for some things, it was best to keep her at arm’s length. 

And despite all of that, she still gave the best advice. Flynn shrugged and plopped a grape in her mouth. “You’ll know if you talk to him.”

Julie had planned to do that. The days leading up to Butterfly, she prepared the words in her head and then went back and forth with herself whether or not it was stupid. She hardly knew Luke. She knew everything about Luke. Luke would never like her. Luke _might_ like her. Julie this and Luke that and it all ended with her painting suns and stars and moons on her favourite pair of jeans. At least she had a cute outfit to wear on Saturday. 

But then Saturday came. She walked down the stairs in her upcycled jeans and froze in the middle of the kitchen. The radio was on. That should’ve been her first warning sign. Just as she was about to walk back to her room, she heard it: an old station playing her mom’s music. 

Rose and The Petal Pushers crooned from the stereo, lyrics about dreaming big and aiming high and flipping nay-sayers the bird. A speechless Julie listened on, paralysed, the music drilling in her soul and forcing a whirlwind of emotions to overcome her in mere seconds. Anger, melancholia, anger, sorrow, anger, grief, surprise, anger, pride, anger, frustration. Anger, anger, anger. Angry that the world took her mother from her. Angry that an ‘oldies’ station played her and not a mainstream one. Angry that she was the only one in her entire family that had to endure this _thrice_ as hard, in full velocity, blaring in her head like a megaphone. 

She painted and doodled and ‘reframed’ her thoughts and paced in the garden and nothing worked. She cried and screamed and even after her outburst, she didn’t feel relief. All she could think about was how unfair the universe was.

By the afternoon, Julie was exhausted. Dad asked if she wanted to stay home, but Butterfly had become such a safe space that she couldn’t imagine _not_ going. The purple carpet and the stupid sage walls were home to her. 

The group instantly felt the shift in mood when she trudged inside, her cheeks and neck splotchy and shoulders tense. Luke sat up straight, worried, and quietly watched how she sat down next to him. Her teeth scraped across her tongue, trying to pluck words from thin air and coming up empty. She was numb, that simmering maddening hint of anger right beneath to tickle her ear like a mosquito on a hot summer night.

Unlike Luke, she didn’t favour touch when she felt like this. 

“Julie?”, Petra uttered. 

Her eyes were trained on her thumbs, the fingers methodically brushing over each other as finally, words spilled out. 

“People think I do it on purpose. But I don’t. It’s never on purpose. I just… I’m so angry. I’ve always been so angry, all the time. And then my mother died, who was kind of- she kept me grounded. She was my everything. And then she died and I felt like the world got taken away from me. So I got angrier. So, for me, it feels like people owe it to me. If they stole my mom, then I can steal right back. What does a tube of mascara mean in the grand scheme of things if I can’t have my mom? I guess… I guess it’s me reclaiming control. I couldn’t save her. But I can choose what to steal and how I steal it and how I sneak out the store and the rush of not getting caught it’s- it’s like a drug, I think. I don’t know. I’ve never done drugs. But I’m so angry at myself too. It’s mostly… internal, the IED. I hate that I disappoint my dad every day. He doesn’t tell me, but I know I do. I hate it. Cause I try, so hard. I try every day and the meds help, but… it’s not enough. I wanna play with my brother and not have him fear I might hurt him. I want to go to parties and drink, but I can’t, because I can’t mix my pills with it. And like, that’s not- that’s just something small. Like, I’ll live without it. I know that. But it still hurts. I’m just sick of waiting for the next thing to set me off. And I miss my mom. I miss her so much. I miss her more than anything.” 

A shuddering breath caught the vowels, lips rolling in as tears smeared down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking, but she trucked on. 

“And I just… it’s everything. We all know that. It’s everything and everywhere. You see something you want to do and you wonder if you’re able to do it or not. You see someone you like and- and you’re afraid. To hurt them. Doesn’t matter how. I’m so scared that everything that I am will just push everyone away. Like, my dad’s gonna die too. My brother is gonna move out in a few years. Friends grow apart. I don’t know… I don’t… I feel like I’m losing everything. So when people get angry at me, or disappointed, I just wish they understood. It’s not on purpose.” 

Petra nodded. “When did you paint your pants?”

Julie wiped her cheeks, confused. “What?”

Luke scowled. “That’s your question after what she said?”

“I’m asking, because I’m curious.” The woman folded her hands. “When did you paint them?”

Unable to quite catch up to Petra’s mental gymnastics, Julie drawled her words together. “A few days ago.”

“Were you angry when you did it?”

“Yes.” She swallowed back the primary reason and vaguely added: “And other emotions.”

She smiled. “You told us during one of the sessions how much you were enjoying making ‘ugly’ art. Messy art, you called it. I assumed it reflected how you felt on the inside, but this, Julie, this is… it’s beautiful work.”

“It is,” Kayla added. “I was going to ask you where you got them.”

Carrie’s nose curled up. “It’s not my style, but I appreciate the work of an artisan.”

Staring down at the yellow sun smacked on her thigh, she mumbled. “So? I don’t get what this has to do with… with anything.”

“You’re correct in saying IED is a part of you. But your art lets the world know it’s not ugly. Or not _just_ ugly. It’s beautiful too. It’s detailed and meticulous and shows patience and love. It’s purposeful. And that’s _your_ work. That’s you as a _whole_ creating beauty. This is you reclaiming that narrative, taking control, without harming anyone.” Her smile brightened to a full beam. “Every time you choose to be guided by your art, your IED doesn’t become a hindrance, but a tool to create whatever you please.”

Luke nudged her shoulder, teasing. “I’d _love_ for you to paint on one of my jackets.”

Julie barely listened to him, completely transfixed on Petra’s speech. Was it really that easy? Would art really be the way for her to live a less turbulent life? To eventually go to college without the fear of bursting into flames in a lecture hall? What if this was just a temporary fix, something she’d get accustomed to in a few months and then needed to find something else? Her art might be ‘beautiful’ now, but what if it turned truly vile? Her own mind betraying her, like it always did whenever she went down her angry spirals. Julie must admit Harrison’s reframing was expertly done. She’d never claim the doodles on her pants were life-changing. 

The ephemeral bliss she felt while painting, however, was. That did change her life. It had only been a few weeks, barely a blip in her eighteen years on earth, but she knew it to be true. She couldn’t sabotage herself on this. 

Art might be her new control.

(Would her mother forgive her? Would Julie start forgetting her? Would she forget the way her curls danced and how her eyes squinted when she laughed and how her fingers moved across the keys of the piano? Would she be able to forgive herself when she did?) 

“I wasn’t joking, y’know,” Luke said as they walked out the barrack. “I want you to paint one of my jackets.”

A grin crawled up her lips all too easily. She probably looked like a total wreck after everything today, but Luke seemed indifferent towards it. “Pay up.”

“Pay up?”, he gaped, faux-offended. “No friend discount? Julie!”

She contemplated his admonishment with a hum. “Maybe. Or maybe… exchange of goods.”

Sending him a mysterious look, she felt her cheeks heat up when he returned that with a cute smile of his own. 

He leaned into her. “What’re you saying?”

“I want to hear you play the guitar.” Her arms crossed, challenged. “You talk a big game, but…”

“My words gotta match the talent,” he boasted, grin stretching wide.

Giddiness surged in her chest. Her emotions were all over the place today and she had no clue where she had found the strength to make this happen. Oh, God. Were they agreeing on a date? A friendly hang-out? The protocol was to not meet up with people from Butterfly outside of Butterfly, but Luke had already broken that rule with Alex. And really, did Petra think a bunch of troubled kids like them would always abide to the contract? 

Luke continued, his nod assured. “No, yeah. Let’s do it. You know the skate park in Los Feliz? Willie works there. I’ll bring my guitar and jacket, you bring your paint or whatever you use.”

“Tomorrow at twelve?” Her tone was laced with hope, Julie having no time to regret it as he matched it with a hopeful smile of his own. His green eyes were blown wide. 

“Yeah,” he breathed, gaze drifting past her to her dad’s Nissan. “Tomorrow.” 

**_what would you say if i told you im going on a date but could also just be hanging out w luke?_ **

**_omg!!!  
_ ** **_but omg?? how do u not know???_ **

**_sorry  
_ ** **_they don't prep you for this at butterfly_ **

**_shame.  
_ ** **_wear blue :) makes you pop_ **

This was worse. Infatuated jitters was so much worse than perpetual anger. Ever since she was seven years old she has been learning to deal with anger; no one, not even her mother, taught her the ropes of crushes. 

There was Nick is sophomore year. He was a ‘stare from afar’ type of crush. It was typical: he was tall and blonde and on the lacrosse team and had a cute face and didn’t never treated her badly. Flynn told her that the guy was simply doing the bare minimum and that she needed more before taking the leap, but she chickened out in actually talking to him. Eventually, the crush faded. Julie believed he was now dating Charlotte. It didn’t hurt much when she found out, reinforcing the crush wasn’t that big to begin with. 

With Luke, it felt big and simple all at once. Like, of course she’d start liking him. He was cute and nice and made her laugh - a lot. It almost felt too simple, like she missed a few steps or cheated her way around the board. 

Then again, this could also _not_ be a date and she was working herself up for no fucking reason. At least she was wearing blue. That helped. Her denim jumpsuit was like a power suit, hopefully giving her the same type of confidence she exuded on the Butterfly parking lot. 

The Los Feliz skate park was crowded. Sprawling with skaters, young and old, she had to watch out if she didn’t want to get maimed by an absentminded boy in cargo pants. The citrusy scent of weed hung in the air, some trap music blaring from the repair shack to the left of the big ramp. She saw Willie first, easily recognisable by his long hair and bright socks. He was fixing some kid’s board, Alex a few feet away looking at the people in the pool while smoking a joint.

Luke appeared from around the corner and her heart leapt from her throat. Shit. She shouldn’t have worn denim - now they just looked like fools together. How could she have known his jacket was a long, denim duster?! (Who even wore those anymore?!) 

He caught her eye and walked towards her with a bright smile. Not a date, she reminded herself. Not a date, not a date, not a date. 

“Hey, Luke!” Someone jumped from a railing, expertly landing back on his board. His voice bellowed, teasing. “Matching with your girlfriend? Cute!”

Luke laughed and flipped the dude off. “Fuck off, Donald!”

The guy, Donald, stuck his tongue out and rolled away into the pool. Julie stuck her hands in the pockets of her jumpsuit, awkward. Well then. So much for keeping it casual. 

Waving it off, he shot her a tense smile. “He’s just playing, don’t worry about it.”

Her eyes tracked his jacket, incredulous. “I can’t believe you actually own this. Or wear this.”

“It’s cool as fuck.”

“It’s…” Trying to find something good to say, she laughed instead. “Where did you even _buy_ this?”

“I thrifted it on Venice.” Luke made a show of popping the collar, which only made her laugh more. Rolling his eyes, he flattened the fabric. “Whatever. C’mon-”

He motioned at her to follow him inside the shack, seemingly at home moving around counters and pushing stuff aside for her to have a place to work. It was all wood and metal plates holding the roof up, a cluttered mess of skateboards pinned on walls and tucked in corners. A sturdy table stood in the backroom. Leaning against one of the ratty couches was a guitar case, excitement flaring up in her chest at the sight. 

The duster was thrown on the table, revealing a simpler t-shirt beneath. Julie unearthed the paints from her backpack, Luke eyeing the few colours with curiosity. 

“Is that enough?”, he asked. 

She nodded. “I mix them to make other colours. What do you want to have painted?”

His fingers rubbed the chain on his trousers, pensive. Green crossed brown and she felt the jitters again, averting her gaze to the duster. 

“Do whatever,” he eventually exclaimed, bouncing towards the case and zipping it open to reveal the guitar.

It was exactly how she thought it would look. Used, but still in good shape. It was navy, the gloss scratched up, though the strings seemed fairly new. He must’ve plucked the old ones to death. Tempted by his offer, ideas began whirling around, sketches she made at the back of her calculus book coming to mind. It was ambitious, bold and vibrant and easily fucked, but she was up for the challenge. Unscrewing her paints, she nodded at the instrument. 

“What’re you going to play for me?”

He perched himself in a recliner, proud. “An _original.”_

Her brows raised. “Really? I thought you were just starting that.”

“Yeah.” His hand grazed against the neck lovingly. “I already have a hit.”

Julie huffed. “What? You’re the next John Lennon?”

“So much faith,” he mocked. “What’re you gonna paint?”

Mixing red and blue, she zipped her mouth shut, throwing away the key with a cheeky smile. “That’s a secret.”

Luke groaned, head rolling back. “Seriously? Fine, whatever, this is called ‘Bright’.”

Her smile softened. She didn’t think he was actually serious about the original. It was actually pretty cool how he threw himself in the process of creating. One could say they were the same in that regard; using art to deal with life and drawn from similar aches. It was a comforting thought.

“Bright?”

His fingers found the right frets, callouses sinking into the strings. His lips pursed, shaping to find the right words. She noticed he did that a lot in Butterfly, like he was preparing himself and not be lost in his forest of thoughts. 

“The last weeks at Butterfly inspired me. It’s usually more activities than talking and, I don’t know, all the depressing shit got me feeling hopeful.” A bashful shrug made her insides flutter. “I don’t know why.”

Her brush hit the denim, a first stroke of electric purple covering the fabric. For some reason, his words propelled her to make the most off-hand joke ever. “Is it my dead mom that did it?”

“Yeah,” he sputtered, taken aback. “It’s the dead parent, _for sure.”_

Unceremoniously, he began to play it. The intro was a simple fingerpicking; gentle yet controlled. Her head bobbed along as she painted, blue melting with the purple into an ombre.

And then he sang, Julie freezing in place. 

His voice was incredible. Smooth, yet with a raw edge, one perfectly suited for punk-rock songs. It hit certain curls and twangs as he jumped from note to note, melodious and enchanting. She could tell he wasn’t classically trained, but that kind of made it better. He made his voice his own, used whatever skills he had to elevate himself. Whatever she felt for him just doubled like that, heat crawling up her cheeks and no doubt appearing as a flush on her cheekbones. 

His jacket was long forgotten, a wonderstruck Julie staring as he sang about fighting for a better life, a better future, to leap out the darkness and into the light and to take a risk. He smiled while he did it, each syllable laced with joy. She’s never seen him so carefree. No worry pinched his brows, no distractions danced behind his eyes. He was fully in the moment. And it was beautiful. 

“That was… _really_ great,” she exhaled when he finished. The last note drifting off snapped her back to reality; back to the grimy backroom of a skate shack. Outside, there was clamour. Somehow, that all got pushed aside; his music worked better than Petra’s meditation exercises. 

He smirked, trailing closer. “C’mon, Julie, it was better than great.” But then his smile turned timid. “It was?”

“Yeah, you- you’re really talented.” More almost stumbled out. That she used to play piano and sang too. But if she did confess to that, he’d beg to showcase it and she wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t about to face one of her biggest fears after four years of avoiding it for a _guy._

“Thanks,” he smiled, sitting down on the bench next to her. “Can I watch you paint?”

Swallowing an immediate ‘no’, she weighed her options. Wasn’t this what she wanted, to spend time with him outside of Butterfly? She didn’t want him breathing down her shoulder though; that would set her off without trying. 

“Uh,” she mused. “Not in silence.”

Luke laughed. “You think I can keep my mouth shut? Nah.”

Instantly, he launched into a ramble about other songs he’s been working on, Julie pitching in whenever a part didn’t require her complete focus. How she could easily follow along with music jargon, he didn’t ask her, though she was certain the questions were tucked in the back of his mind for the future. The future - a smile bloomed on her face just like that. A future where they’d keep talking, keep being friends (or more) and he’d ask her things she’d eventually be able to answer. Julie liked that idea. 

Her hair was in the way, slipping the hair tie from her wrist and tying half up. His spiel faltered, Julie turning to look at him expectantly. 

His head was tilted, lips parted in a breathless smile. His brows were furrowed as if he were trying to figure something out. 

“What’re you staring at?”, she joked, though a hint of anger pinched her throat. She didn’t mean to, but what if she had something on her face and he was being a dick and didn’t tell her? 

His hair danced across his forehead as he blinked rapidly - once, twice. “I was just talking to your hair for the last hour. It’s nice to, uh, see your face again.”

Unsure how to reply to that, she pointed at the jacket. “What do you think of that face?”

“It’s fucking incredible,” he gawked. “You’re amazing.”

Abashed, she kept her eyes trained on her work. It _was_ pretty cool, she must admit. The odd angle of a guy’s face in abstract colours, quick strokes of blacks, blues, purples and reds. The neck was corded with veins in even more opaque colours, catching anyone’s eye that would pass him in the future. Examining it now, she realised a little embarrassed that it kind of looked like him. Would he notice? Would he care? It wasn’t creepy, was it? Maybe she had been looking at his neck a bit too calculating during a game of Twister. 

“Thank you,” she muttered.

He puffed in disbelief, fingers hovering above the portrait. “You just had that ready in your head?”

Playfulness took over again, her previous jitters fading to the background. This was easy. Talking about art was easy. “No, I sketched it a few weeks ago in one of my handbooks. I didn’t know it would come in handy though.” Grabbing a smaller brush for the final details, she added: “I’ve gone through so many sketch books already.”

 _“Ooh.”_ Luke shifted closer, curious. “Can I see? You have some of them with you?” 

“They’re at home. You can come-” The words died on her tongue. “Uh…”

A hand raked the ends of his hair, the awkward energy palpable. His knee began to bounce. “Yeah, you don’t- you don’t have to invite me over if you don’t want to.”

“But I want to,” she heard herself blurt out. They stared at each other for a moment, unsure how to tread these uncharted paths. It was already shaky grounds for her, not knowing whether this was a date or just a hang-out, and now she was going the extra mile to make it even _worse._

White dabbled along the edges. “Uh… I don’t know why I said that.”

“No,” he jerked, hand stretched out. “No, that sounds cool. I just wasn’t sure if you felt forced or something.”

“By you?” A brow quirked, relief sinking in simultaneously. “You think you have that power?”

“Damn, Julie.” He clicked his tongue, hand clutching his chest. “Why you gotta hurt me like that?”

The girl simply smiled, enthralled by the fact that they just agreed on _going to her house_ and barely processing that she was finished with his jacket. Her brush rolled away, Julie going over the paintwork once more before meeting his amused eye again. If she’d look at it any longer, she’d find flaws. “It’s done.”

Excited, he squeezed her shoulder and stared at it in awe. “It’s so [dope](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0019/7145/4050/products/O1CN01cWO1801JZjfHYz2Gr__2937791043_413x@3x.progressive.jpg). I wanna wear it right now.”

“It’s not fully dry yet,” she warned. If he ruined it, she’d start screaming. “So you _have_ to be careful.”

He nodded, stern. “I will. And it can dry on the way over. You live nearby?”

“Uh, yeah,” she chuckled, sheepish. “Three blocks away, actually.”

His eyes widened. _“What?”_

Luke stood in the threshold of her bedroom, shifting his weight as his unsure gaze tracked the space. When she told him she painted whenever she felt angry, she wasn't kidding. _Maybe_ she should have prepped him for the explosion though. 

Every inch, every spot, was covered. Her floorboards, her walls, the frames of her closet and door and windows. Her painted jeans was thrown over her desk chair, more clothes piled on top of her desk for future upcycling. Suns, stars, moons, faces, landscapes, fashion sketches Flynn send her, quotes, sprawling, intricate patterns. Every day, she added something new. 

If she wasn’t so proud of her healthy progress, she’d feel insane under his awed expression. 

Standing in the middle of the room, she decided to take him ot of his stupor with a grimace. “Yeah... it’s a lot.”

“No,” Luke rushed, bouncing from his heels and coming towards her. His smile was dazzling. “It’s... it’s _cool._ It’s really cool, Julies. I dig it.”

The grimace morphed to match his smile, her foot nudging his. “Cool… thanks.”

Now was supposed to be her cue to grab her sketch books, show him what she’s been working on. But she couldn’t. Julie was frozen. He’d crossed enough space to be chest to chest and she was all too aware of his sudden closeness. The hairs on his arms, the rise and fall of his ribcage, the fading freckles. Her breaths shallowed, chin tilting up to look at him. Her skin buzzed, anticipation coursing through her bloodstream. Her hands twitched to curl around his shirt. To pull him even closer. 

She’s never kissed anyone, but she was curious if he kissed like he sang. 

Luke felt it too, that same breathy smile from before adorning his lips as his eyes slowly trailed across her face. It dropped below her nose, that fond gaze making her lose any sensical thought. 

His hand slid up her arm, setting every atom aflame. Her instincts told her to run. Her heart begged her to stay. 

The constant pull between them brought their faces impossibly close, his tongue swiping his lower lip as he uttered: “Can I kiss you, Julie?”

The second she nodded, he pulled her in and gently pressed his lips against hers. They were warm, heat tickling her skin in the most amazing way possible. She didn’t think about if she was doing it right. All she did was place her hands on his cheeks and kiss him back, chasing the thrill of having her mind be deliciously blank and overflow with bliss at once. 

Luke sighed, nose shifting to her cheek as she felt a smile stretch against her skin. It might be the best thing she ever experienced.

“I knew it,” he whispered. “Your skin’s soft.”

She giggled, coaxing his face to look at him. “You’ve thought about the softness of my skin?”

“Oh yeah, Jules.” Giddy fingers glided across her cheekbones and jaw, his soft cradling making her quietly swoon. It must’ve shown on her face though, his nose scrunched up in a grin as he leaned in. “I think about you a lot.”

This time, Julie kissed him, her touch tinged with confidence as it slipped into the ends of his hair. Luke hummed contently, hands caressing the small of her back. A more perfect first kiss she couldn't imagine. 

Then, reality caught up to her. What the fuck was she doing? She was supposed to have a _conversation_ with him, figure out what they actually wanted and what risks they were willing to take - not kiss each other! Julie really cared for him and she didn’t want to mess it up by exploding on him, didn’t want him to feel like he had to walk on eggshells to be with her. Sure, she figured art helped, but there was no guarantee it’d keep her from hurting others. Her next outburst could happen any moment, anytime, anywhere. Luke couldn’t be collateral damage. 

It didn’t matter if she was overthinking this or not. She couldn’t hurt him. She couldn’t, she couldn’t, she couldn’t. This was a mistake. 

Abruptly pulling back, Luke stumbled forward with a yelp. “Whoa! You okay?”

Her head shook, frenzied, as her hands scrubbed her cheeks. (She still felt the press of his nose regardless.) “What are we _doing?”,_ Julie breathed, gutted. “I can’t kiss you.”

His face crashed, devastated. “W-what?”

Gah! Why did she ruin this?! They had such a great friendship going! Anger licked at her feet, steadily crawling up her bones. Her jaw clenched as words spit out. “I can’t do this. I can’t hurt you. Cause I will. I will hurt you if we- if this is actually-”

His features contorted in a pained grimace. All previous levity had vanished. “You don’t think I’ve thought about that?” 

“You’ve only seen the pretty parts, Luke,” she bit. “You haven’t seen me angry. Really angry. IED isn’t- it’s not like how you get angry. It’s an illness.”

He didn’t back down though. His arms crossed, squaring up. “You get off on saying that or something? I _know,_ Julie.” 

“Well, _I’m_ warning you!”, she yelled, exasperated. Her hands flung in the air. “I’m warning you and I’m telling you it’s not a good idea. None of this was- _this_ is _why_ everything should stay at Butterfly! This is a _mistake.”_

“Julie! We’re _both_ fucked in many ways. But at least I’m not saying ‘fuck you’ to my feelings. What’re you gonna do in ten years, huh? Are you gonna stay alone forever?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped, turning away from him in annoyance. Her attempts at reframing didn’t work when he was in the room; she couldn’t focus on being the better person. “I’m not a fucking fortune teller. But, _sure,_ I’ll stay alone if it means I won’t hurt anyone.” What would cut him enough so he’d leave?

Her mouth set in a thin line. “I lied, Luke. IED _can_ be dangerous. Not always, but it can be. Carrie’s right. I _am_ a bomb. And yeah, I’m good now. I’m doing really good now, but that can all disappear in a second.”

“Why are you talking about yourself like that?” He groaned, raking a rough hand through his hair. “I thought-”

“You thought what?”

“I thought Butterfly was _helping_ you.”

Another cut, another push, another strike where it would hurt him. Luke had to _leave._ “If Butterfly helps people, then why are you still there?”

His expression turned grim. “You know why.”

“Yeah. But it also means it doesn’t do anything. It’s just-” She scoffed. “-glorified therapy.”

Confusion riddled his sentences. “Petra got you on art. She got me on the guitar. She got Reggie on cooking. She got- she _helps._ Butterfly helps.”

“Luke.” Her voice dropped to a dangerous depth. He stumbled back in surprise. A flexed finger pointed at the door, trembling. “Go!”

“Julie-”

“Go!”

“Julie!”

“GO!” The girl yelled at the top of her lungs, stomping her foot down and fiery red fury overwhelming her senses. Blood pounded in her ears, her heart palpitated, her skin rippled like needles across chalk. The slam of the front door rattled the ground. 

Dad and Carlos found her ten minutes later slamming her fists into the wall, her bed and desk trashed and garments ripped to shreds. When dad bellowed her name over her raging thoughts and caught her eye, she burst into hot tears. A frightened Carlos in baseball uniform fled from the scene as dad scooped her in his arms. Her knees buckled, the two slumping into a ball on her messy floor. Unstoppable, aching sobs wracked her body. 

“I messed up, dad,” she wailed, eyes swollen from crying. “I always mess up.”

He pressed her face in his shoulder, soothing sweet nothings uttered in her ear. Shame ate away at her. Julie was eighteen and crying on her floor and her dad had to treat her like she was a toddler. She hated this. 

Even worse: she did it all on purpose. 

When she somewhat calmed down, dad spoke. “What happened?” 

Julie told him everything. Meeting Luke and getting to know him and starting to like him and dreaming about him and drawing him in her sketchbooks and kissing him. She confessed about meeting him outside of Butterfly, how she went to the skate park and brought him here after. Dad didn’t get mad; she wasn’t sure if she deserved that. She told him about her conversation with Flynn too. How she was afraid to hurt him. How she did just that a mere hour ago. How he probably never wanted to see her again. 

When she finished, she felt a weight being lifted from her chest. It was minor, but it counted for something. It had been a while since she confided with her dad, so used to sitting in a circle and not remembering how valuable his wisdom could be. 

Because at the end of the day, he was all she had. Ray Molina was unconditional. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, brushing a stray tear from her chin. His face was troubled. “I’ve let you down.”

Dread dropped in her stomach. “What? You-? Dad, you didn’t let me down. You _never_ let me down.”

“But I did. You should be able to be in relationships and find love and not be… _trapped_ by the fear of hurting them. I should’ve helped you with that. Or Dr. Turner. Anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I pushed him away. It’s done.”

A gentle smile washed away the sorrow. “Mija, feelings don’t vanish. Not immediately. I’m sure not all is lost.”

When she didn’t say anything, his musings continued. “Did he see you angry?”

She pouted. “The beginning of it.”

“And did he go?”

She paused. Luke didn’t go, not until she yelled in his face. “What if he has a saviour complex?”

_“Julie.”_

“I don’t know, okay! Mom was the last person I-” Breath caught her words. “I leaned on her. Dr. Turner made it pretty clear after she died that I couldn’t do that again. And I can’t allow him to do the same with me. I can’t- I’m confused.”

“You are,” he nodded, earning him a roll of the eye. “But that’s the beauty of Butterfly, you have a week to figure it out, hm?” Holding his pinky out, she hooked hers around it. It was the safest she felt all day. 

Julie whispered, “Okay. I’ll figure it out.”

That week, dad sent her loads of videos and articles about the topic at hand. She went through it slowly, letting each word and confessional sink in. Some relationships worked, some didn’t. Very few were violent, most weren’t. Julie didn’t know what to think. 

It was torture being unable to contact Luke. Her gut told her to confront him now, speak now, act now, but her father was correct in letting it simmer for a week. The temptation to go to the skate park was smothered by art. Carlos commissioned her to make a mural on his wall and in return, he’d do the dishes for a week. That helped. Had he asked her because he knew she was in the gutter? Probably, but she loved him even more for it. 

A chunk of her time and focus went to the mural. He wanted a dystopian city with robots and ghosts and cyborgs, a concept that begged for a lot of detail and meticulous designs. In the hours she painted, she didn’t think about Luke. 

Miss Porter only unnerved her once, which resulted in kicking down a row of bicycles, but _not_ the urge to steal something for that rush of dopamine. Julie counted that as a win. 

By Friday evening, she still didn’t know what she was going to say to Luke when she saw him. If she saw him. He could’ve easily decided to stop going. Or was that arrogant of her? He was there first, _she_ joined later. That spiral alone left her grinding her teeth for hours. 

In the end, she had nothing prepared. She consumed all her father had emailed her, she found sanity in the mural of her brother and solace in Flynn’s encouraging texts. 

Dad brought her to The Butterfly Room earlier than usual, in hopes of catching Luke before the session began. She’d rather not have this conversation with the others gawking and Petra potentially getting mad over their date. 

Tucking her hair behind her ears, she watched from the window as Luke biked up the lot and dumped his bicycle in the rack. The sight of his painted jacket spurred her into action. Julie didn’t say bye to dad, rushing towards Luke before he had a chance to escape. 

“Luke!”, she called out, hating how frail her voice sounded. 

He turned towards her, surprised. It was off, the space between, the memory of kissing him an aching reminder that it could be crossed. Her clammy hands wiped against her jeans, the girl taking a steadying breath. Whatever she was going to say, it had to be truthful. She couldn’t allow herself to be hurtful again. Luke deserved better than that - _she_ deserved better. 

His guarded expression made her falter. Would he say something first? Should she start? 

“Uh, hey,” he fumbled, “I didn’t know if you would come.”

The two smiled, tense, as Kayla walked inside. She only had a few minutes. “Yeah…” Digging her heels in the ground, she said: “I’m sorry, Luke.”

He nodded, unsure. “Cool.” A hesitant pause, a sigh, a shifting of weight. The energy between them had never been like this, it was never anxious. She didn’t realise how much she’d miss the easy flow of conversation until it was gone. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Julie,” he sighed. “I- I like you. But that’s not enough, I guess. And that’s not- I’m not trying to- I don’t know.” Grazing his teeth across his lip, he mumbled: “I thought that kiss-”

“It meant something,” she but in, unwilling to hear the rest of it. “It _means_ something. I’m just so afraid to hurt you.”

“You didn’t even give me a chance to _try.”_ He laughed, bitter. “I just told you I liked you and you didn’t even react!”

Her voice cracked. “Because I like you too, Luke. And I’m so afraid of that. Statistically, most relationships where a person has IED don’t work out.”

Somehow, amusement tugged on his lips. “Julie, I like you, I’m not asking for your hand in marriage.”

She puffed. “I know.”

“And you’re improving.” The smile stayed. “You have art and you can tell when you’re getting angry and you haven’t stolen shit in _months._ You’d never-” Tentatively, he took a step forward and encased her hand with his. “You would never hurt me on purpose.”

Staring down at their conjoined hands, she whispered another insecurity. “You’re already so much further than I am.”

“Cause I got to Butterfly earlier,” he bounced back without a sweat. “And anger in ADHD is, y’know, different.”

“Yeah.”

Another beat of silence. Julie wasn’t really sure if they just agreed on something or not. If they’d gotten anywhere better than last week. At least she wasn’t screaming. This was the conversation they _should’ve_ had instead of jumping the gun and kissing him. 

They liked each other, but was that enough? 

“Julie?”

“Yeah, I’m-” She looked up at him, halting when noted the vulnerability residing in the green. The sea glass green she has always adored so much; that she kept daydreaming about after her first session. “I’m thinking,” she finished lamely. 

“About?”, he pushed. 

His thumb swiped across her knuckles, the touch propelling her closer as if thread were spun around their torsos and all he had to do was be there. Was that enough? Feeling this warmth, greater than those needles prickling her skin, whenever he was near? It seemed too simple. Life was never this simple. 

A careful smile pulled on her cheeks as she was reminded of what he told her last week. “You. I’m thinking about you.”

Before his alluring grin could completely rapture her, she held her pinky out. “Promise me, that if I get too much, or you get too much, we stop this. That we stop before we burn out.”

His finger instantly curled around hers. She’s never seen him look so assuredly in all the months she’s known him. “Promise.” The rest of his hand weaved through and pulled her in for a tight hug, snug in the curve of his body and exactly where she wanted to be. 

This relationship… it was a risk. But she was willing to take it. It felt too right to be wrong. 

His lips brushed her forehead, delight filling her chest at the affection and tilting her head to return the favour. They didn’t have to reach far to kiss the other. It was just as blissful as before. Like a lullaby, quiet and smooth and ardent. A passion unlike anything she’s ever felt. 

A sudden realisation made her mutter against his lips. “I think we’re missing the session.”

Luke chuckled, bright. “I don’t care.”

“We’re going to make friendship bracelets.”

“You can teach me,” he whispered, cradling her wrist and placing a kiss on the abundance of bracelets she and Flynn made. It was their tradition, though she supposed it wouldn’t hurt if Luke became part of the pile. 

Julie’s heart surged, melting away any lingering doubts she had. “Was all that bravado just an act?”

His nose scrunched. “Was you flirting with me from the get go an act?”

“I wasn’t flirting!” Her jaw fell slack when he rolled his eyes, clearly in disbelief. 

His face shifted into some caricatural expression, pouting and batting his lashes like an idiot. “You have nice eyes, Luke!”

“I felt bad for snapping at you in the station! And it’s the truth.” Shrugging, she lingered on the vibrant green. “You have nice eyes.”

His smile widened, stretching his cheeks. “Yours are prettier."

She crossed her arms. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“C’mon, Jules,” he pleaded. His index finger jutted out. “Once. Let’s skip just this once. They would think we’re being assholes anyway, smiling like that.”

Julie didn’t need to ask what he meant by that, very aware of how dopey she must look. “Okay,” she relented. His finger turned into a victorious fist, whooping. “What do you wanna do?”

Humming in contemplation, he tucked her under his arm as they walked off the parking lot. When he’d come back for his bike, she didn’t think to ask. All she thought about was how, if art was her happy place, then Luke was like the prettiest shade on her palette. He was indigo, rich and unique and often forgotten, but always one she went for. 

She imagined her to be a shade of yellow. Warm and fast and effervescent. Complementary, as to never fuse together into a horrible mess, but adorn each other. It made sense, Julie realised. Luke made sense. Her rushing whirlwind of thoughts came to a standstill. 

Before he made up his mind, she quipped: “Do you want to make a mural with me? I have an idea.”

He blinked, surprised. “I was debating between boba and getting hot dogs, but that works too.”

Her arm slipped around his waist. “Maybe we can do both?”

“Yeah,” Luke grinned. “Sounds good.”

That afternoon was one she’d cherish forever. Her and Luke at the back of the skate shack, sipping on boba while using cans of purple and yellow graffiti to create a new piece of art. Neither were great at using the medium, but that made it more endearing.

After, he sang her another song he’d been working on and she secretly promised to herself that maybe, in the future, she’d try to sing again. If not, then the piano. For now, she’d revel in his voice.

“You’re the calm in the storm,” he crooned. 

It felt like a good place to start. 

**Author's Note:**

> will i ever not use colour symbolism? 
> 
> my tumblr: @lydias--stiles


End file.
